Hands
by DasMervin
Summary: Before then, her Sweeney's hands had been cold. But they were hot now. Hot, and he was holding her in a deadly, slippery embrace.


**Title: Hands**

**Rating: PG-13/R for violence**

**Author's Notes: Don't get your hopes up. No sex here. Just death.**

* * *

His hands were on her again. Yes, his hands…how she'd always loved his hands. 

She remembered shaking Benjamin Barker's hand fifteen years ago. They'd been soft then, and smooth. He'd had a firm handshake, one that had made her feel warm all over. Mrs. Lovett hadn't loved him then, but had automatically liked him. He was such a sweet-tempered young man, seven years her junior and a plucky little thing, eyes bright and he'd looked ready to take on the world—or at least those in the world who wanted a shave. As she'd slowly gotten to know her new tenant, she'd started shaking his hand more often, looking for any excuse to grasp his hand or have him take hers in his own. But, as fate would have it, she'd only realized she was in love with him after he'd met Lucy Carrington.

Suddenly his handshakes became almost painful, because, after he'd married Lucy, Mrs. Lovett had known what those hands had been doing, known that his hands caressed parts of Lucy in ways that she'd only just started to dream about. Even the way Benjamin had chastely held her when dear Alfred had passed away in his sleep had seemed almost poisonous—he was holding her, and yet she knew he held Lucy in much more intimate ways, and, though she never told him, his seemingly comforting embrace had been more harm than help.

So she'd stopped shaking his hand, and her secret loathing of Lucy Carrington had increased exponentially every passing month that Benjamin's lovely little wife lived above the now widowed Mrs. Lovett. It had stayed that way for two years, her silently hating Lucy and despising her for being the one Benjamin made love to, and, when she learned he'd been sentenced to life in prison, and her last glimpse of him had been a distance away, watching guards drag him screaming onto the prison barge, she'd cried herself to sleep many times because suddenly she regretted not holding his hands just once before he'd gone, and spent the next fifteen years wishing desperately for her Benjamin to return to her, just so she could clasp his hands in hers again.

Benjamin Barker had not returned—but Sweeney Todd had. Yes, Sweeney Todd, gliding into her shop in Benjamin's stead. The room had been a little too dark for her to tell it was him at first. His hair was dirty and tangled, his face like a skull, and his walk had been predatory. Even his voice had changed—Benjamin had a sweet, smooth voice. Sweeney growled everything he said, and he said not a word without venom and spite (except when he murmured things to his razors—then he sounded like Benjamin again). But when he'd screamed, as she'd spun the tale of Lucy Carrington's tragic demise, she'd known. She'd recognized that scream—that very scream had haunted her for fifteen years, Benjamin Barker screaming to Lucy as they shoved him on the barge to take him to his fate. But when he'd turned on her, snarled that Barker was dead, she'd almost been afraid she'd made a mistake; not just that maybe she had the wrong man, but that she'd better not lie by omission about Lucy. Then she'd taken him back up and shown him his razors, and the way his pale, thin fingers had caressed the silver, she'd known—it _was_ him, and, if nothing else was the same, those hands were.

She remembered the first time she'd ever dared to reach down and squeeze his hand reassuringly. She'd nearly jerked back in shock—it was so cold, so bony, and so very unresponsive. Benjamin had always returned the grasp with a smile. Sweeney didn't acknowledge her hand in any way whatsoever, and he'd been so _cold_…but she'd shaken it off. He wasn't holding her hand, but he wasn't refusing her, either, so she'd kept her hand around his until he'd pulled away to go brood at the window again.

Mrs. Lovett had thought on that for hours—he hadn't held it back, but he hadn't pulled away. Didn't that mean he'd wanted it and liked it in some way? And the Lord had already answered that particular prayer—to bring him back to her just so she could hold his hand again. Answered more than just that prayer, as she had found many an opportunity to put her hands on his shoulders, her arms somehow around him, and it was easy to ignore the tenseness, the way when she got her hands around his middle, she could feel every rib protruding, easy to ignore that he always moved away like a caged animal. Not so easy to ignore was that razor he always had in his hand when he was upstairs waiting for customers, but she found she could manage sometimes.

Then, of course, there was the first time in so many years that he put his hands on her. The Judge had just gone storming off, and she'd come upstairs to find him in a state of shock shortly before he'd exploded into what she'd first thought to be one of his petulant tantrums he was prone to now before soon realizing this was something different. Unfortunately, before she'd even had time to fully understand that her dearest Sweeney had hopped his twig, he'd rushed across the room at her and that bony hand had grasped her throat and pushed her hard against the wall.

She'd been afraid then—she'd never been afraid of him before, content in the knowledge that only she could tame this wild beast just as she had when he'd been full of bloodlust and had demanded she send up that little lad Toby, but now her leash was broken, and he had her, face near hers and snarling. Being tossed in that chair had not helped her fear, and then she'd finally understood what had happened to her beloved's mind when that silver razor caressed her exposed throat and he breathed deadly, hateful words in her ear. It hadn't lasted long—he'd gotten distracted by other thoughts and had continued storming about the room, raving like a bloody lunatic, razors in hand, before eventually collapsing to his knees with such melodrama that she'd dismissed her fears—no, this was one of his fits again. Just a little more excited than the usual fare.

That had been the only time he'd been yielding to her touch. He stared at the floor, looking very blank and utterly lost, and she'd known he needed something to snap him out of it. So she'd reached around his waist and been almost startled to discover that, instead of tensing immediately, he was completely limp. She'd also discovered that he was less starved than she'd thought, picking him up off of the floor like that. Dead weight was always heavy, she supposed, and he'd stumbled against her, all but collapsing on her again and nearly sending them both tumbling to the ground in a tangled heap (which she would not have minded, save for the fact that he still had open razors in his hands). Getting him down the stairs had been an interesting journey, and she'd been worried about the neighbors seeing him in this state, but the day had been quiet and nobody had cared. As such, she'd had the opportunity to enjoy how, though his hands were cold, his body was warm against hers.

Oh, but then she'd had her brilliant little idea, and a fire she hadn't seen since he'd returned had suddenly flared in his eyes, and he'd taken her in his arms and danced with her, his smile sinister but still a _smile_, and it was for _her_, not those razors. And his hands…they'd finally grasped hers again, holding them tightly, his arm sliding across her shoulders, and a hand on her waist. His hands had been on her more than they ever had been, and she'd reveled in it. He'd _seen_ her, _touched_ her, _smiled_ at her. But, still…his hands had been so cold. She couldn't blame it on how very hot she herself was—hot with giddiness and lascivious thoughts from the way he'd put that meat cleaver to her throat and pulled her tightly against his body—no, his hands were always cold, and it had almost ruined the moment. She'd reminded herself that he was holding her hand, holding it tightly, just like she'd seen him hold Lucy's hand, and her heart had soared.

Unfortunately, while that night had been filled with all manner of plotting, scheming, and sitting huddled together at a table, the occasional shot of gin passing between them, and him still giving her that nasty smile, the euphoria had disappeared quickly. Sweeney soon retreated right back into that damned shell, sitting all day upstairs and staring at the pictures he had of Lucy and Johanna. He'd not let her in on his plan for the chair, but he'd shown her when it was done. She'd been impressed, very impressed with such work. And he'd looked so savagely pleased with himself, she'd thrown her arms around him and kissed his cheek, telling him how brilliant he was. That had been when she realized he was gone again—his hand had reached up and grasped her wrist, and for a brief moment, she'd been excited, thinking he was responding…but then he'd pulled her arm from him and shoved it away, his eyes never leaving that chair. She'd left when he told her to get out, somewhat downtrodden from the sudden and unexpected withdrawal.

She hadn't had much time to dwell on that as she and Toby had prepared for the reopening of her pie shop, this time with much better pies, she was sure. She'd felt a little bad, testing them on Toby, but what he didn't know didn't hurt him. Besides, he raved about them and loved them. She'd thrown herself into the work, relishing each time a new customer went upstairs. It was a slow beginning, but then word began getting around, and she got more and more meat. In no time, she was ready to open up and business as well distracted her from the fact that her Sweeney seemed to be getting more and more introverted yet again, and his general aggression wasn't tapering off, even with the fact that he was getting to slit throats right and left. It wasn't good, not good at all—supposing he went overboard and killed someone the law could trace? That wouldn't do.

She'd set to tempering him as much as she could, bringing him food, taking good care of him, sitting with him up in his parlor sometimes, dragging him out of central London and out to the countryside for a little fresh air (although he never responded to it), and—one time only, though—even going so far as to put him to bed. He'd been sick that day, hadn't eaten or drank a thing (damned fool), and she'd managed to get him mostly undressed and under the threadbare sheets of his ragged bed. It had worried her then—she'd touched his forehead, brushing the hair away, and he'd been burning with fever, but his hands…they'd still been cold. He'd rolled away from her, his loose nightshirt slipping and she'd seen, on his shoulder, white lines. Briefly tracing one of those scars with her fingertip, she'd pulled the blanket more securely over him, telling him to rest easy, and she'd heard him whisper something. She hadn't heard what he'd said, and still enjoyed dreaming it was him saying thank you rather than to get out.

Things had gone bad just three days after. Sweeney was hers now, she knew it, just by the way he'd looked at her when she'd gently reminded him that life was for the alive, and that it was doing nobody any good to constantly brood on a dead woman, and she'd been positive he was about to take her in his arms and kiss her, but that wretched sailor had burst in with news of Johanna, and Sweeney had vanished from her sights again, turning on her and taking that single step towards her when she'd dared even think about disobeying him. And then Toby had tried to go to the law, and she'd had to do that to him…her poor boy.

She'd had no choice, and she'd hated how cold Sweeney was regarding the whole thing. But she'd not even had a chance to reprimand him for his heartlessness when that Beadle had shown up, and when she'd finally managed to go back to the bakehouse with Sweeney, Toby had vanished. Sweeney had searched briefly with her, and she was glad for that—not only was he probably scaring the boy further, but it made her slightly uneasy to watch him stalk through the sewers; he was far too at ease, far too voracious for the child's throat. Her search led her in circles, and then she found herself back near the meat grinder, about to call for Toby again, when suddenly her skirt was yanked and she nearly fell to her knees. She'd been unable to suppress her scream, expecting to find a murderous little boy at her skirts when instead she found a bloody Judge, and seeing what Sweeney had done to him had been horrifying, yes.

And then Mrs. Lovett had seen _her_.

Panic. Pure, unadulterated panic. Fear, terror, shock, everything flooded her body like electricity, because Sweeney was coming downstairs, coming to investigate her scream, _and his wife was lying there dead by his hand_.

Flinging herself into action, she'd barely managed to drag Lucy a few feet when he'd burst into the room, and she'd hardly noticed him covered in blood, the light from the oven throwing sinister shadows over him.

"Why did you scream?" he'd demanded, looking aggravated.

"He was catchin' hold of my skirt, but it's fine—'e's finished now!" she'd babbled, still dragging the dead Lucy across the floor, struggling to get her to the oven, and dread had flooded her stomach when Sweeney did not go upstairs like she'd hoped but instead strode over to her, and she'd not missed the glint of that evil razor in his hand.

"I'll take care of it," he'd growled. "Open the door."

She was terrified now, outright disobeying him as she struggled to keep dragging Lucy away, keeping her face hidden, but then Sweeney's hand had lashed out and pushed her fiercely away from the body. "Open the door, I said!" he'd snarled at her, looking almost like he would hit her if she didn't do it immediately. And so she had, trembling with fear as light had suddenly flooded the room and he'd rolled back his sleeves from his blood-soaked arms, and it had happened.

He'd seen her. And even worse…he _knew_.

Oh, how she'd hated how he'd stared up at her, such a terribly betrayed look upon his bloody face as he'd knelt beside his Lucy. "You _lied_ to me…" he'd whispered, venom suddenly gone and nothing but horrible mourning left.

"No, no, I never lied," she began, and she slowly moved across the floor towards the door, rapidly spinning out the truth, finally telling him all that she hadn't told him, but he wasn't hearing her and she knew it, and he wailed out a piteous lament, and she stopped her inconspicuous journey to the door and escape. There was no fury…only sadness…surely that meant…and so she'd said it, finally said what she should have said a long time ago, told him that she _loved_ him, the pure and simple truth that she was so much better than Lucy, and why couldn't he see that?

He'd rounded on her, and she'd been more afraid than ever, looking at him silhouetted in the firelight, his arms reaching for her, fingers beckoning, a leering smile upon his face, and he'd advanced towards her. Some small part of her wanted to run, to leave, but he'd called her his love, told her there was no reason to be afraid, but his eyes…his eyes were so hateful, so full of that familiar wrath he'd never directed at her before, but it was clearly only for her now…

His hands were on her again, and she felt weak in the knees—they were warm. No, more than warm, they were _hot_, his hands were hot again, gripping her own severely. They were hot from blood; they were sticky, slippery, but they were _hot_. And he himself was hot. The heat was all but radiating off of him, his face drenched in blood, his clothes stained red, and as he grinned savagely at her, his burning hands gripped hers even tighter. He whirled her, spun her, danced with her just like he had that day in the pie shop, told her all the things she wanted to hear, danced past Lucy's body. His voice was fierce, and sounded like it had that day in the shop when Turpin had first escaped him, but surely he wouldn't do anything to her, her Sweeney had never once lied to her. And the heat—it was ever so hot, surely all that heat couldn't come from her dearest Sweeney…?

And then his burning, slick hands were on her upper arms, and his leer turned into a monstrous snarl as he screamed that horrible scream at her, echoing her own words back to her, and she knew, suddenly she knew, but there was nothing she could do now, and she felt him turn that inhuman, terrible strength on her, something she'd never imagined he would do, and he threw her into the open, waiting oven.

As she screamed, burning and dying, she saw his eyes, could do little but watch him coldly slam the door on her, and her last thought was that what she'd told Toby…always close it proper.


End file.
